


a face like heaven

by soulgraves



Series: the party isn't over tonight [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Band Fic, Coda, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 12:20:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8013520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulgraves/pseuds/soulgraves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam kisses him onstage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a face like heaven

**Author's Note:**

> A coda/sequel to [the party isn't over tonight.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5385434)
> 
> Also [on tumblr](http://gravesouls.tumblr.com/post/150272528935/a-face-like-heaven-blainesam-pg-coda-to-the).

 

**~**

 

Sam kisses him onstage.

Sam kisses him onstage and the noise is deafening, and Blaine isn’t sure what he’d expected, but it isn’t this. He’s spent so long denying the looks and the touches and the sheer, overwhelming _love_ that Sam radiates because it can’t be, it _isn’t_.

Except it is.

It is, _it is_ , and it was enough for Jack and Amal and the crew to know because _how couldn’t they?_ but it’s something else entirely for Sam to turn and kiss him in front of six hundred strangers.

Later, back on the bus and counting down the days until the end of tour, Sam asks him if he minds, if he shouldn’t have, and Blaine kisses the doubt away because Sam still has _no idea_. Blaine’s loved Sam for so long it feels like forever, and he left his grand, romantic ideals back with a broken heart and crumbling future, but even in that Sam found his dreams and built them up brick by brick until they became something vast. He’s loved Sam forever and Sam _loves him back_ , and it’s the last piece in a puzzle he didn’t know he was even playing.

“It’s fine,” he says, and means _It’s wonderful._

Sam ducks his head on a smile, and Blaine wonders if not running is really the best chance he has at a whole and happy heart. He thinks maybe it is, in Sam’s hands, and his fingers itch for pencil and paper as music tumbles through him and he reaches out to brush Sam’s hair away from his face.

 

 

**~**

 

Tour ends with the usual levels of chaos, and Blaine slips on a smile and thanks everyone he passes, shaking hands and wishing safe travels. He knows in a couple of months he’ll be ready to be out on the road again, but right now he just wants a decent shower and his own bed and the awkward workings of two guys figuring out how they fit in an apartment that hasn’t housed them since they were nothing more than best friends.

L.A. is still surreal, and Blaine’s amazed it feels like home even though home to him has always been a person not a place (— it’s always been _this_ person, and isn’t that honesty still just rolling in —). They open all the windows and take turns in the bathroom, washing away the last dredges of sweat and highways, and Sam digs around in the kitchen cupboards until he’s able to make them something almost edible.

They stay awake as long as they can, flicking through reality channels and texting Jack and Amal because hours of separation means something else when they’re weeks away from being in the same room again, and Blaine misses them already. Sam gets a call from Kitty that he lets go to voicemail, poking Blaine’s arm until he promises to remind him to call her back in the morning, words deep and sleep-slurred, and Blaine aches with affection.

“Bed time,” he says eventually. Sam nods, tripping over his feet as he stands up, and Blaine takes his hand and leads the way, stopping only to turn off lights.

“This is not my room,” Sam says when Blaine begins pulling back sheets, and Blaine laughs, something soft and real and a little hysterical, and loves him, loves him, _loves him_.

“I know,” he says, and Sam smiles and shucks off his jeans, crawling down next to him. “Hi,” he says, when Blaine’s comfortable.

Blaine’s forgotten to close the blinds properly and his shirt’s crumpled on the floor, and he doesn’t move. “Hi,” he says instead, and falls asleep to the sound of Sam’s deepening breath and the feel of his hand burning a mark against his hip.

 

 

**~**

 

He wakes up late, cherishing the novelty of no engine vibrations beneath his feet and the sun a still line across his eyes.

Sam’s still dead to the world, facing away from him with one arm tucked under his pillow, the other thrown over the edge of the bed, and Blaine takes a moment to study the planes of his back, his shoulders, his neck, luck and lust and love a tumble of sentimental alliteration amplified by _home_.

And, _god_ , but Sam’s home.

He slides out from between the sheets and thinks about breakfast — lunch by now, really, but breakfast’s always been Sam’s favorite meal — and the piles of laundry they need to start on sooner rather than later. He doesn’t want to leave without letting Sam know where he’s going, though, and besides…

_Besides._

Sam’s kissed him onstage. Sam’s kissed him onstage _multiple times_ , and Blaine’s kissed him in clubs and venue parking lots and on the bus as Jack and Amal pretend to gag, and those might be public places but public means something different to them now.

Sam’s kissed him and told the world _‘Look! Here’s my heart, right here on my sleeve!’_ and Blaine’s kissed him back but he’s not yet raised his own voice, maybe out of fear, maybe out of disbelief, but _still_.

He finds his phone down the side of the couch and takes the picture.

 _’Look!’_ it says. _‘Here’s my heart, right here.’_

It’s not a kiss onstage, but he thinks the world can hear it all the same.


End file.
